Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Home for the Holidays ❯ Chapter 3

Home for the Holidays

Chapter 3

 

For Darksquall. Sorry this took so long.

All Characters borrowed without permission from SquareSoft will be returned, only slightly traumatized, upon request. Written for love, not profit.

`Hero' Universe.

 

*

Squall and I ambled into the lingerie store, which was shockingly bereft of shoppers. I guess women don't buy these sorts of dainty things for themselves and the other 8 male shoppers in the mall were clustered around the electronics store trying to watch the game.

The overly pink and perky sales clerk expanded her chest and smile, then went back to sulking behind the counter at the resounding lack of interest. I checked out the “Yuletide Spirit' costume while Squall wandered around. Fluffy feathers are called Malibu, the tag informed me, and the Malibu must be a goddamn rare bird, because there wasn't enough of anything else in that scrap of fabric to warrant the horrendous price. I certainly didn't want to spend that much of our budget on a gag, and especially not on something that would result in grievous bodily harm to Zell and thus, eventually, me.

It's not like I really wanted anything bad to happen to the guy. We never got along but I had many fond memories of Zell. Mostly of pissing him off until he frothed, but hey, fun is fun. By the time I figured out the Almasy method of bonding through Assholiness only worked on Squall and Fuu, it was too late.

Plus Squall was looking at silk stockings and I was getting mental pictures that would get me stabbed in the head if Squall suddenly learned to read minds. It was giving the sales clerk ideas, too, because she undulated over and made a production of showing him the clocks on the hose she was wearing.

Enough of that. I grabbed Squall and dragged him off to gayer pastures. He gave me an odd look and I fabricated, “Too expensive. As in spontaneous nose bleed expensive.”

He shrugged. “I noticed the less there was, the more it cost.”

“That explains the price tags hanging on the empty hangers.”

We passed one of those Men's Gifts shops warily. These are the places that sell indispensable man gifts like cuff links, ear hair trimmers, and checker sets with shot glasses for the markers. Predictably, all the shoppers inside were frustrated women grumbling about men who say they don't want anything.

As a public service, I should mention that when a guy tells you he doesn't want anything, he really doesn't want anything. Because if a man wants something, he gets it himself. We're not really known for resisting impulse buys. It's the old hunter-gatherer thing: women compare one berry to another, discuss it's merits, maybe come back later to see if it ripens up more. Men, as hunters, nab something as soon as they see it. Kill it now, find out if it tastes like shit later, because if you hesitate, it's gone.

Also, men don't really like to get gifts; men give gifts - to females. When a woman gives a man a gift, it's like she's scratching her balls. A guy doesn't know where to look. And the gratitude thing is awkward because you never know how touchy feely you are supposed to - or allowed to - get after. When men are forced to buy for other men, they get something they can borrow later, like a chain saw, or consumables, such as a bottle of booze.

Which we couldn't do, of course. Esthar had the worst beer in the world, and that includes that catbarf the moombas drink. The only thing worse than Estharian beer was Estharian wine. They did have some sort of brain killer made from fermented cacti but I make it a rule to avoid anything that can ignite without warning.

The other reason was never mentioned; if there was liquor available, Squall drank it. It irritated me that they kept this weird code of silence about his issues, but at least no one was jerk enough to aggravate the situation by stocking our bar.

My musings led me into a traffic jam caused by some poor bastard in a wheel chair trying to maneuver around 3 women and what seemed like several hundred of their ugly kids. They were standing smack in the middle of the walkway discussing someone's new wife, oblivious to the fact that they could possibly be inconveniencing anyone. The guy's foot was propped up and I could see the throb lines around it like a cartoon, and I winced in pity. Being in pain and forced to Yule shop should be against the International Anti-torture Conventions.

Squall and I were parted by a rush of teens who were determined to get around - or through - all of us in order to better spend their allowances at TrendyMart. Squall gave way and gave way and ended up crammed up by a display window featuring shaving cream heaters and manicure dryers. If he ended up buying my gift there, I hoped he made the right choice. Or I'd be forced to make him do my toes, too.

I'm not a brash kid anymore, but some things you never grow out of, such as not giving way to punks, so I stood my ground. I was also trying to block and deflect the surge of bodies around the guy in the wheelchair, since he had enough problems already. One kid did the shoulder bump to me, and not only did I not budge, but also I flashed him a grin, the one with lots of teeth.

“Watch it, Old Man,” the punk said, and that hurt, since I'm not even 24. Not for a couple days, anyway.

“Why?” I asked. “Does it do tricks?” I was still smiling. “I know! Can it pull some good manners out of your ass?”

His eyes narrowed, but his girlfriend hauled him away, murmuring “Sorry.”

The rush of kids derailed the stunning critique of the new trophy wife, so the wheelchair guy interjected hopefully, “Excuse me, I'd like to get through, please.”

“Do you mind?” One of the women said sharply. “We're talking, here.”

“If you would just move out of the way, you could continue your conversation.” Wheelchair Guy was a damn saint. I dropped a cura on his leg, gratis, as a show of support.

“Why don't you go around?” snipped one of the other women.

And ping, my patience meter clicked off. “Because we'd have to take the ferry back to Fisherman's Horizon to get around your fat ass.” They all turned to glare at me, which at least enabled Wheelchair Guy to get by. “Instead of using up all the oxygen in the area, why don't you hie yourselves off to the gym and work off some of those lattes?”

“Well, I never!”

“Yeah, I'm thinking that's part of the problem.” I was going to launch into my theories of how they should keep their fuckugly children locked away in the basement for the good of humanity, but I was distracted by the sparkle of Esuna off to the side. I left the women fuming and sputtering to go find Squall.

He was fuming a bit, himself. Squall had drifted too close to one of the nefarious Yuletide Scent Spritzers, and she'd gotten him but good with what smelled like the Gingerbread Man's ass. “I don't think Esuna is going to fix that, Baby.”

“It helped with the allergic reaction.” He huffed and eyed me. “I thought you were going to pop that boy.”

“I'll have you know I have personal rules against that. But I was tempted to magnetize one of the support braces with a spell and stick him to it by his piercings.”

Squall looked impressed. “You have that spell?”

“No,” I said sadly. “But a guy can dream.”

Squall rolled his eyes and looked around. “Book store?” he suggested. He knew we'd find something for each other in there, at least.

“Why not, we deserve a break.” So far, shopping was looking like a bust, the only things we'd bought were for ourselves.

On the way over, Squall was mobbed by 4 or 5 or 800 little girls, who all bounced up and down and squealed. They were at that highly excitable age, somewhere between baby dolls and boyfriends. Once my hearing returned to normal, I figured out they were chanting “You're that guy! It's him, it's really him!”

Squall was taking on that glazed look of a man who was about to bolt for the exit and leave his lover alone in the big scary mall center to do all the Hynebedamned Yule shopping by himself. We couldn't have that.

“It's not really him,” I told the little girls.

“Yes, it is! He even has the scarrrrrrrrr.” They went into raptures. I had a scar, too, but no one noticed.

I clamped my hand on Squall's arm, holding him there, and said briskly, “It's make up.”

“Make up?” Squall and the girls echoed.

“Yeah, its for cosplay. They have a whole big deal up on the third floor.”

“OooHH!” Cosplay was even better than bumping into the Prince of Esthar, the Lion of Balamb, and the Hero of the World. The girls quickly confabbed and bounded off towards the escalators. One paused to say sincerely, “Awesome costume, seriously.”

“Costume?” Squall asked faintly. “Cosplay?”

“Cosplay. You learn all sorts of things a college, you should try it.”

“Why doesn't that ever happen to you?”

I sighed. “Because I was the bad guy, remember? You get fan girls and I get death threats.”

“Is it too late to trade sides?”

All our trials and tribulations didn't matter once we finally made it into the book shop, for there, on a table near the back door, was The Perfect Gift. Squall and I both drifted over as if hypnotized. I swear a shaft of light came down and angels sang.

“They put `Weapons Monthly' on disc?”

 I picked up a box. “All of them, all 20 years. Fully illustrated.”

A blond sales girl trotted up, all smiles. “Those are on sale, and if you buy one, you get the annotated index for the weapon of your choice for half price. And a free poster.”

We bought everyone they had.

…For the record, the sales girl's boobs weren't that big. But the little darkhaired guy with her had a killer smile.

 

*

 

“I am not pacing,” Squall said, only a tad defensively.

He was right, prowling would be a better term for it. Normally I had no objections to watching Squall move around the apartment like a caged cat, all sleek muscle and contained violence. The problem this time was, I was just as twitchy and bored. I hate waiting on things you can't hurry up, like trains.

I'd had my last final of the year that morning; Squall picked me up at school after and we'd celebrated with lunch at a popular local hangout. Sadly, one can only linger over a cheeseburger and fries so long before the milkshakes melt. We repaired to our lair to fidget until it was time to head for the train station.

Neither of us is known for patience. We just express it differently. If I'd been alone I'd be doing the same thing as Squall - endless circuits of the apartment, looking for something to do that wouldn't take too long, wouldn't mess up the pristine house, that wouldn't take much attention since one eye was always on the clock.

On Squall's perigean pass, I reached up from my sprawl on the couch and nabbed him by the belt, dragging him down into my lap. I took advantage of the momentary speechless indignation to steal a kiss.

“We have 40 minutes,” I hinted.

He rolled his eyes. “I just put clean sheets on the bed.”

“Oh, dear. I guess we'll just have to make out here on the couch, then.”

“Leather does clean up well,” Squall agreed. I knew there was a better reason for us having it everywhere than Squall being colorblind.

The advantage of being men, and hot ones at that (if I say so myself), is that foreplay generally consists of getting close enough to touch. Squall pushed me down on my back and pounced on my fly. I'd planned to do something a little more physical, to get rid of his sexual tension, but once Squall gets his lips and tongue on my cock, all my upper brain functions switch off. I barely managed to untangle my fingers from his hair long enough to push him away, and I was thinking at the time I should get a hynebedamned medal for even trying.

“Want you,” I wasn't whining. Really. But by that point, I'd even let him top, and Squall knew it.

Proving he really is the perfect lover, Squall didn't press that issue. He rose up and I helped peel those leather pants off him, an art form in itself. Squall straddled me while I held onto his hips, marveling at the feel of him, all satin skin and hard muscle. Then he forced himself down on me in one smooth move and my brain exploded.

Once we were both sated, Squall spread over me like a blanket, resting his head on my chest, listening to my heartbeat.  I rubbed lazy circles on his back and cat napped, knowing Squall the punctual would wake me up in time to go.

Sure enough, I was awakened by a kiss. I smiled sappily up into Squall's storm gray eyes.

“Seifer,” he said huskily, “we missed the train.”